The counterman yodeled out, “Byyyyye, Chief!”

McCabe gave him the finger and smiled. “I don’t get no respect.” Then he was gone. I watched him get into a beautiful silver car and drive away.

“Drives a very nice car for a policeman.”

Hugh had watched too, and he nodded. “Did you see the wristwatch he was wearing? That was a Da Vinci! We’re talking about serious money for that timepiece.”

Frances shrugged. “He’s loaded. He doesn’t need to be a cop, but does it because he likes it. Made a lot of money with his first wife. Something to do with television. He told me once but I forget.”

“I like him. He’s a tough guy.” Hugh put up his fists and pretended to box.

“You do? He reminds me of one of the gangsters in Goodfellas, I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

Frances patted my hand. “No, you wouldn’t. He’s like a Russell’s viper if you cross him. But a great friend and one of the few people you can depend on completely. Shall we go? I’m excited to see my house.”

This time Frances sat in the front seat and directed Hugh to the house. As we drove through Crane’s View, I kept imagining myself there, walking down this street, shopping at that store. Letters to us would arrive at the small gray post office at the end of Main Street. After a while, we would know the names of the men on the orange garbage truck stopped at a corner. Young kids rode bicycles in woozy lines down the sidewalk. Dogs crossed the road at their own pace. Two girls had set up a lemonade stand on one side of a tree-lined street. The sun through the leaves dappled the girls and they frowned at us when we drove by.

“Hugh, look!”

A pretty teenager was walking a bullterrier that looked like Hugh’s. The two were in no hurry. The dog sniffed something on the sidewalk, tail wagging slowly. The girl wore a Walkman and waited for him with arms crossed. She looked up as we passed and waved. Frances waved back.

“That’s Barbara Flood. Good-looking girl, huh? Her grandfather was Tyndall’s gardener. Turn right here.”

“She’s the first black person I’ve seen here.”

Frances gave Hugh a shove. “Don’t start with the liberal agenda. There are plenty of blacks in Crane’s View. The mayor is black.”

He caught my eye in the mirror and winked. “I was just making an observation.”

“Yeah, well it weighed ten pounds. This is it. Stop here.”

“This house? You’re joking.”

Frances’s voice slashed down like a karate chop. “What’s the matter with it?”

I bent forward for a better look. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just big. You said it was small. This is not a small house, Frances.”

It was blue, sort of. Blue with white trim. But the years had faded the paint to the color of a pair of old jeans. The white around the windows and door had yellowed and was peeling off everywhere. McCabe was right—the first thing it would need would be lots of paint. The house was square, shaped like a hatbox, with two floors and a large porch in front. The night before we drove there, Hugh and I had spent a whole dinner wondering what it would look like. Neither of our imaginings had come even close to this.

“Here Hugh, you open the door. I want to take a look around.” Frances handed him keys and walked toward the porch steps. Leaning forward, she kissed the wooden newel post. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Slowly climbing, she patted the banister as she went. At the top, she reached out and pressed the doorbell. It rang loudly inside.

Hugh put his arm around my shoulder. “Did you hear that? A real bell! Ding dong!”

I quietly asked, “What do you think?”

“I like it! Reminds me of a house in an Edward Hopper painting. It’ll need a lot of work, though. I can see that already.” He put his hands on his hips and looked appraisingly at the house.

“It’s sure a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I thought it would be a kind of large bungalow.”

Frances walked to the end of the porch and stopped. Her back was to us. She didn’t turn around for the longest time.

“What’s she doing?”

“Remembering, probably. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to see what it’s like.” Hugh slotted the key and turned it in the lock a couple of times. Before pushing the door open, he slid his hand back and forth over the surface. “Nice door, huh? Oak.”

It swung open. The first odors of our new home drifted out to say hello: dust, damp, old cloth, and something in complete contrast to empty-house bouquet. Hugh entered while I stood in the doorway, trying to figure out that one smell. Clean and sweet, it was not at all appropriate in a building that had been closed and unused for years. It was fresh, delicious. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“Miranda, are you coming?”

“In a second. Go ahead.”

I heard Hugh walk across the floor, then a door creak open. He said a quiet “Wow” to something in there, then his feet started across the floor again. What was that smell? I took a few steps into the house, looked around, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a moment later, the hallway was full of people. Full of children, rather, with a few adults standing around watching the show. Kids were running, jumping, making faces at each other, and playing. They ran back and forth from room to room, stomped up and down the staircase, ate yellow and blue cake (that was it—cake smell!), blew plastic horns, hit each other. Most wore pastel party hats. Seeing them, I realized what this was—a kid’s birthday party.

I was not surprised. I must repeat that, because it is very important. From one second to the next, Frances Hatch’s empty house was in a flash full of the happy chaos of a child’s birthday party, but none of it surprised me. I simply watched and accepted it.

One little boy in a crooked party hat stood in the middle of the hall watching the party whirl around him. He wore a white button-down shirt, stiff new blue jeans, and zebra-striped sneakers. He looked like a miniature Hugh Oakley, even to the color and texture of his long hair and the broad grin on his face. A smile I knew so well now and loved. This had to be Hugh’s boy.

He looked directly at me and did the most wonderful thing. Slowly closing his eyes, he shuddered all over. I knew it was from delight at the party around him. For it was his party, his birthday.

His name was Jack Oakley and he was eight years old. He was the son Hugh and I would have when we lived together in this house. We had already talked a lot about having children, joked about what their names would be. Jack and Ciara. Saint Ciara of Tipperary who put out fire with her prayers. And now here was our Jack Oakley standing in front of me, eight years old today, looking like his father. There was some of me in him too. The high forehead and upward curve of the eyebrows.

I didn’t move, scared if I did, this gorgeous vision of our future would go away. The boy looked at me and, still smiling, threw his small hands in the air as if they were full of confetti.

“Miranda?”

Startled, I jerked my head to the left. Hugh walked toward me, smiling just like his son. Our son. I looked back to where the boy had been standing. Everything was gone—Jack, the kids, the party.

“Are you okay?”

“We have to live here, Hugh. We have to live in this house.”

“But you haven’t even looked around yet! You haven’t moved from this spot. Come on, I’ve got to show you something.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gently pushed me along. I went but looked back once, twice, just in case Jack was there again. The little boy, our little boy, come to show us how wonderful it would be for all of us here.